


Palinopsia

by Delcat



Series: The Skies We're Under [9]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Biting, Blood, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dominance, Eye Trauma, Fluff, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Stuttering, Submission, disturbing mental images
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3609843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delcat/pseuds/Delcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's possible to cast a line to the deepest of dark waters, but you may not like what you trawl up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Strictly speaking, Wilson couldn’t remember when he had started crafting glass.

It was troubling.  Since he had been pulled to the Island—no, before that, even, when he had started work on the Machine—his inventing had developed a mind of its own.  The things he made simply weren’t possible sometimes.  He remembered staring in confusion at a floral-print umbrella that he had produced from actual flowers without any memory of _how_ , but knowing that if he needed to do it again, he would be able to.  It was something he had wished for uncountable times in the past, but he couldn’t put aside the notion that the “forbidden knowledge” it undoubtedly stemmed from came with a price he wasn’t sure he could pay.

Still, it was useful.  The umbrella, impossible as it was, had kept the rain off, and at least a few of the frogs.  And this…

Wilson used a pair of tweezers to hold the lens to the light, squinting as it focused it.  He could, at least, understand the “why” of this one, if not the “how”.  Finding a pair of discarded eyeglasses in the basement had been unsettling, but most of the things Wilson found in the basement were unsettling.  Once he pushed the questions and discomfort aside, he had turned them in his hands, thinking about the thickness of the lenses, thinking of magnification, thinking of light, thinking of his childhood…

He shook his head.  He still felt sorry for those ants.

Lowering the final lens into place, something…clicked.  It always did when he prototyped something, a warm shudder of dreamy pleasure that cleared off the whispering for a little while, and he always swore to push it aside so he could see what was truly happening, but dear God it felt _good_.  He only closed his eyes for a moment, humming softly and appreciatively to himself, but when he opened them his invention was already complete.

A cut reed.  A series of lenses.  A light flower.  One of the buzzy electric things that constantly proved themselves useful.  And a tiny chip of red gem.  He listed off the components in his head as he picked up the device that didn’t resemble any of them.  It was on a handy little chain, for God’s sake.  It had every reason to worry him, but there was only one useful response.

"I am o-one h-h-h, _heck_ of a s-scientist,” Wilson whispered to himself, a lopsided smile crossing his face.

After a brief examination of his new invention—what did you call a flashlight but better?—he found a button and held it.  A bright red dot of light appeared on the desk, wobbling and darting with the trembling of his hand, but otherwise unfaltering.  He blinked, frowned, and passed his hand under the beam, watching the dot jump from one surface to the other like a rainbow cast from a prism.  _Interesting._

But how far would it go?

Wilson trained the beam on the desk, then the floor, then along the wall, tension mounting as the pinpoint of light bobbed shakily along.  He watched it disappear into the hall and swallowed as he spotted it again, halfway to the parlor, as bright as ever.

It wasn’t so much that he was having second thoughts as that he hadn’t stopped to look at the first ones.  He hadn’t thought it would _work_.  He hadn’t considered having to go through with it because he hadn’t considered it would go through.  That was the hell of it, he supposed.

That was the price.

Wilson picked up his cane and pulled himself up, wincing as his back protested.  The constant black shadow across his vision made detail work hard, and he didn’t even notice these days how badly he was hunched in to his workbench until he leaned back.  The pain wasn’t as bad as the self-disgust that crawled over him thinking about it.

Never mind it.  He could climb above it.  He _would_.  He _was_.  With _science_. _For_ science.

He crossed to the window with fresh determination and opened it.

It was always night here, but there was a cycle.  During the “day”, there was enough of a dull glow to move around in, not emanating from anything, simply there, like dusk in November, trees standing in stark black silhouette against what passed for a sky.  It was more than eerie and reminded him too sharply of things he had seen in his sleep, of bad territory, and he preferred the warm light of the moon to work by.

Tonight, though, there was no moon.  Simply the dark.

Killing dark.

Wilson took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and turned on the flashlight.

The dot appeared close by and immediately.  A tree?  He cursed himself for not realizing how little it’d actually illuminate, then improvised, sweeping the beam back and forth in quick motions to find the outline the object.  Yes, a tree.  And if he remembered right, a marker sign he had put up close by it…yes, he could make sense of that too.  This could work.

Oh God, he didn’t want it to work.

Trees.  Rocks.  Tufts of grass.  Wilson slowly cast the light further and further into the distance, angling for a clear line of sight.  How could it go so far?  But there was nothing out there, or at least nothing unusual.  Wilson’s heart jerked in his chest as it caught something moving, but the familiar shriek of a spider resolved it immediately, and he laughed despite himself, following it as it retreated with an offended hiss.

Wilson leaned on the sill, giving his leg a break as he slowly calmed down.  Figuring out the shapes in the dark was almost entertaining.  He supposed it meant a failed experiment, and he wasn’t sure what it meant about things he remembered, or thought he remembered, but everything had a use.  The little light would come in handy for something, or he could dismantle it for parts, or—

A blare of radio static broke the night as the tiny red prism caught suddenly in the middle distance and spread like lightning, forking out in jagged angles, a sudden neon outline scrawled against the night, and Wilson was unable to move as it strode toward him, air trapped in his lungs, each purposeful step robbing his body of warmth, of feeling, and oh how the light **burned**

**What  
are  
you  
staring  
at?**

It ripped off one glove and reached to touch Wilson’s face, and Wilson remembered the first time he’d found his own skeleton, ripped clean, picked clean, carved down to the bone, remembered how it felt to be **flensed** , but he couldn’t scream this time, he wanted to scream but he couldn’t, he couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t he **couldn’t**

Something knocked him off his feet, flattened him, and the static cut off sharply as pain exploded through his body.  His senses were still scrambled, and a horrible afterimage glowed in both eyes, blocking out everything else, but the suffocating heat was familiar, and it was _heat_.

Wilson curled his hand into Chester’s fur, managing a soft moan.  She didn’t stop whining, and he tried to look at the window, sure for a moment the bird doctor would be climbing over the sill.  But it wasn’t the soldier, was it?  But was it the soldier?  But wasn’t it?

The window slammed shut, and the sound cut through the looping snarl of his thoughts.  He tried to sit up, and Maxwell pushed him hastily down.

"Don’t try it, pet, you look ghastly.  Breathe."

Wilson did his best to obey, drawing a thin breath as Maxwell unbuttoned his shirt.  He was afraid to look at him for reasons he didn’t want to grip too tightly.  He had seen enough he shouldn’t have seen, if he looked up and the afterimage matched—

Maxwell laid one hand on his skin, and the reassuring touch of cool leather cleared the haze.  His chest felt three feet thick, but it no longer felt frozen, and his master lifted his hand as the heartbeat beneath it slowed its frantic, thready rhythm.

"You’re fine.  Want to explain why you made me think you weren’t?"

Maxwell’s tone was sardonic, but not threatening, and Wilson weighed his options as Chester pushed him obligingly into a sitting position.  He was already having a hard time remembering exactly what he had seen, and that made it that much easier to doubt it.  Work too hard, too late, and you started thinking…thinking anything.  Ridiculous things.  Especially if you were looking for them.

Still saw them, and felt the ice-pick pain in the one eye that behaved—

 _Eyestrain._   That was _all_.  

He shook his head irritably, gesturing to the window. “…th-thought I saw s-something.  Juh, j-just jumping at s—s-s-s—”

"Shadows."

Maxwell’s tone was oddly flat, and Wilson realized too late that something was off.  He had collapsed from overwork often enough, and Maxwell’s routine for it was…well, rote.  Revive him, berate him, punish him to prevent further self-punishment.  He should be licking his master’s boots by now, and instead he was being—

—stared at—

Maxwell caught Wilson’s hand before it could go to his good eye. “Don’t.”

"Wh-what is it?"

"Wilson…don’t."

"What—wh-wh-what’s _wrong with me_ —”

” _Shhhh_ …”

Silk touched lightly under Wilson’s eye, and he hissed at the immediate burst of pain, keeping it tightly shut as Maxwell scrubbed gently at his cheek.

"There."

Wilson swallowed before daring to look, and quickly turned away at the sight of the bloodstained handkerchief, suddenly queasy.

"Relax, sweetheart, it’s just a cut." He turned Wilson’s head back, inspecting the injury. "Must have caught yourself on something on the way down.  It looks worse than it is, it just bled like hell.  Thin skin." He smirked. "Thinner than usual, for you."

"…ih, if it…a-any closer, it c-could’ve…" Wilson’s throat was too dry to finish the thought.  Too close to two dead eyes.  Too close to the lights going out for good.  Too close to blind.  And for what?

He looked over to where the flashlight had rolled and heaved a disgusted sigh.

_Junk._

He stared at the floor as Maxwell picked the prototype up. “J-just d-d-d— _destroy_ that, do us all s-some good.”

Maxwell flicked it on and off, tilting his head in interest. “Could be useful.”

"Nnnn, _nothing_.  I do.  Is usefu—”

The word was caught in Wilson’s throat as Maxwell’s hand closed around it, and he choked helplessly as his master murmured into his ear.

"Do I have to give you a practical reminder of the _multitude_ of ways you can be used, pet?” Wilson jerked as he dropped his hand just enough to brush his lips over his neck. “We could be here a long…” The bite was expected, but Wilson squealed anyway, and felt the smile on his skin as a result. “… _long_ time.”

Maxwell let go, dropping the handkerchief in Wilson’s lap. “Go get cleaned up.  Quickly.  If you’re not in my room and less than immaculate by the time I get there, there’ll be consequences.”

"—all right, all—y— _yes, Maxwell_.” The sudden assault was confusing to his senses, but it was a very comfortable confusion.  Things were back in their place again.  Including him, he thought resignedly as he dabbed at the cut. “…h-help me up?  Please?”

Maxwell pulled his pet to his feet, made sure he was steady, and stole another quick nip at his neck before he let go, smirked at the muted cry and flush of color it earned.  It was only as he limped out of the room that he let the smile fade.

Misdirection was something Maxwell had gotten down to an art long before Wilson came along, and it required only the slightest of adjustments to perfect for his particular case.  A cocktail of threatening, comforting, and distraction mellowed his pet’s nerves in everything but his worst states, but sometimes a few extra tricks were needed.  A quick manifestation of a claw to draw blood was easy enough at this point, and then switching the scarves was beyond amateur.  Pressing the right buttons after that ensured that the incident would be forgotten.

By Wilson, anyway.

Chester whined as Maxwell retrieved the first handkerchief from his sleeve.  The cloying black liquid that had streaked Wilson’s cheek reeked like a stagnant pond.  It’d been a long time since Maxwell had truly been at a loss, but seeing the color being leeched grey from Wilson’s skin, his face not ashen but monochrome _white_ —he’d be faster next time, wouldn’t give Wilson enough time to catch on—

He cursed under his breath.  There wouldn’t _be_ a next time.  He would end this foolishness one way or another.  Soon.  There had to be something in the Book that could fix whatever had been set wrong in his lover’s head.

In the meantime, though, he had left his pet waiting just long enough to be thoroughly, enjoyably, exploitably uncomfortable.

He crumpled the handkerchief and put it in the safest hiding spot available.  She hiccoughed, but didn’t protest.

"Good girl."

Chester wagged her tail winningly.

——

"I c-can’t understand it."

Chester bounded across the floor, panting hard, *poink*ing delightedly.

"Are you complaining?"

Stumpy feet scrabbled for purchase as she made a hard turn, scampering back the way she had come.

"Sh, she just d-doesn’t get t-t-t—tired of it."

Maxwell spared a glance from over his book.  ”She doesn’t get tired of that damn’ bone, either.  At least this doesn’t wear _both_ of you out.”

Wilson made a noncommital noise.  The previous night had challenged his definition of “worn out”.  He wasn’t sure at this point if he couldn’t move or if he was afraid to try.

"Heh."

Wilson watched Chester try briefly to climb the wall before tipping onto her back, and smiled faintly. “Wh, what?”

Maxwell trailed a hand through his hair, smirking. “Nothin’.”

Wilson sighed softly and edged closer to him, cheeks pink, and…stopped.

After a moment, Maxwell paused, page half-turned, and his voice was barbed when he spoke. “Something wrong, kid?”

He shook his head quickly. “Juh, just w-wondering what you were.  Um.  R-reading.”

"…nothing important."

There was nothing.  No squinting, no leaning in, nothing but the casual progression of his line of sight across the page.  Perfect vision.  He couldn’t imagine Maxwell in glasses.

Could he?

Chester scrabbled at the edge of the bed, *poink*ing desperately, and it dissolved dark thoughts.  He flicked his wrist and watched her scramble after the red dot, tongue lolling behind her in sheer mindless joy.

Whatever the stupid thing was, she really did love it.

The thought turned over a couple of times in his head before Wilson shifted, going motionless briefly as scars, injuries, and…other bodily insults filed their grievances in turn, then rested his head in Maxwell’s lap.

"Get off."

"No."

"Get off."

"N-no."

"Get _off_.”

"Please?"

Maxwell sighed heavily, and Wilson closed his eyes.  After a suitable amount of time had passed, he started begrudgingly stroking his hair, and Wilson made a soft, appreciative humming noise.

Maybe junk did have its uses.


	2. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tl;dr of “you would not fucking believe what I just barfed up over ‘lol Chester likes laser pointers’“

Delcat: ...I'm picturing Woundson inventing a laser pointer now  
Delcat: Lying on the couch because he can't move running Chessie back and forth across the room  
Delcat: Eventually gets curious and looks straight into it  
Delcat: Maxwell has to dress him down for almost taking out the OTHER eye  
Icarus: Aww  
Icarus: Wilson would be so into a pointer that honestly would be so mind blowing  
Icarus: A light that did not seem to deminish at great distance  
Delcat: I get too much enjoyment out of just imagining these three in completely mundane situations I s2g  
Delcat: It's just like hey checkin in you guys good? you're good  
Icarus: He'd be like shining it towards the distance in the board like I CAN STILL SEE IT  
Delcat: Dude. It'd go on SO FAR 80  
Icarus: Maxwell like great dont stare into it again or ill save u the time and blind u myself As he sits there reading a book not looking up  
Icarus: Meanwhile chessie just does that like confused y no toy dance dogs do when u fake em out throwing a toy  
Icarus: Waiting for it to reappear on a surface she can scramble and roll over  
  
I truly intended to write the pure fluff outlined.  I couldn't stop thinking about how the board was completely flat and how a laser could theoretically go on forever, and this happened instead.  Everything I touch turns to poison but people seem to be kinda into that, so hey.

**Inevitable FAQ:**

  * Are you going ANYWHERE with this?



_There_  
_will_  
_be_  
_time_

 

[(Icarus](http://not-fun.tumblr.com/) is good people and is responsible for a good chunk of the [art for this series](http://delcat.tumblr.com/post/83070626845/the-skies-were-under-masterpost) aside from the occasional bit of inspiration ~~that goes way too far,~~ consider dropping by and saying hello.)

(Oh yeah, and I've been trying to find a place to slot in that cuddling scene for eleven months)  
(ELEVEN SOLID MONTHS I'VE ONLY BEEN IN THIS FANDOM A YEAR)  
(it was worth it okay)

**Author's Note:**

> "...the apparition of objects or persons seen earlier..." "...an image already encoded to visual memory."
> 
> It is not the Screecher
> 
> Charlie is not here


End file.
